


Wrong Vacation

by jupiter_james



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injured Dean, M/M, Modern AU, but not so cute, failed attempt at camping, meet cute, mild hypothermia, trauma surgeon Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 20:06:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16353398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jupiter_james/pseuds/jupiter_james
Summary: Goaded by Sam to take an actual vacation, Dean Winchester attempts a camping trip by himself. It goes horribly wrong. Then it goes incredibly right.





	Wrong Vacation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [captainhaterade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhaterade/gifts).



_"Okay, fine," Sam's laughing. "So my road trip was a bit of a disaster. Who cares? It's a good story now, and parts of it were fun."_

_"Which parts again?" Dean chortles, wiping tears of laughter off of his cheeks. "The one night stand you thought you were gonna have with a hot stranger, who asked for a thousand dollars cash the next morning, or inadvertently ending up at karaoke with the mafia at the same time they got raided for drug running?"_

_Sam rolls his eyes. "You don't get to judge me! You haven't done a crazy, impulsive thing in your life, much less taken a vacation!"_

It's true. Dean Winchester has never done an impulsive thing in his entire life. Not since birth. So, naturally the first time he attempts it, it kills him. Or nearly kills him. He's not dead yet. And frankly, this trip wasn't even all that impulsive in the first place. Sure, it had been planned the very second he'd thought of it, but it _had_ been _planned_. Just. Not carefully.

Ugh. It doesn't matter now. All that matters is that he needs to focus really hard on not crossing into the light because he needs to be able to stay behind on Earth as a ghost so that he can haunt Sam for the rest of that asshole's life.

He closes his eyes. Closes them against the tears, the freezing wind, the pain. He probably _is_ going to die out here, and it's so stupid. He was so _stupid_. He knows that he shouldn't fall asleep when he's so cold. Consciousness in the only way to survive these wilderness scenarios, but even if he lives to see the sunrise, he wouldn't know what to do about it. He's miles away from civilization, clean water, cell phone reception. He can't build a fire. He can't hunt for food. He can't do a _goddamn thing_! And now he's going to die here. His pack fell off the cliff, so it's possibly at least close to civilization. But Dean Winchester, his broken body, useless cell phone, and the clothes on his back are up the cliff, where he's slowly freezing to death as the sun sets.

It should worry him when the hurting stops, but it doesn't. It can't. There's nothing he can do. But then he does crack his eyes open when he starts to feel prickles of cold. Is it more hypothermia? He'd stopped shivering a while ago.

Snow.

It's starting to snow. Big, fat, wet flakes. Well. At least it'll be pretty when he dies.

Pretty.

And...

Blue?

No, it's dark out. There's no blue.

Except that there is. A _lot_ of it. And it's really close.

"I can't move you," a muffled low voice says. "But please try not to panic. You're hypothermic. If I jostle you, it could cause a fatal arrhythmia, and that would be bad. Relax as much as you can. I'll get you warm and then I'll get you safe."

It's really hard to focus. He can't see straight. Not really sure that's in the cards anymore. But he _does_ know that the blue are eyes. Pretty eyes. Talking at him somehow. At least he'll die looking at nice things.

And hearing... Asia? What the fuck? He's going to die listening to _Heat of the Moment_? Isn't that a little too on point with the irony? Jesus. Then it stops. Must have been in his head?

Whatever, the orange glow feels nice. Starting to. _Ow_. No, it's not. It's send fucking shards of glass through his veins. He moans, small and pathetic.

"It's okay," the blue eyes soothe. "You probably had some mild frostbite. It'll be painful, but it won't last."

It's extremely dark, save for the orange... _fire_ , it's a fire, by the time the cotton starts to clear. Dean can blink now, but he can't move. A minute later he realizes that it's because he's wrapped up tightly like a burrito, over his head and everything in some sort of thermal layer. Maybe a sleeping bag?

The blue eyes hover over him again. Blue eyes on a man. Probably. He's heavily bundled. Holding... a thermometer? "I need to take your temperature," he says softly, tugging the wool scarf off of Dean's mouth. Dean's lips split as he opens his mouth and closes around the plastic. It beeps a minute later. The man with the blue eyes squints at it, and then the lines around his eyes soften. "Your body temperature is almost normal. We should get you indoors. Do you think you can move?"

Dean nods, though shaking his head would be more accurate. Now that he isn't freezing to death, his leg and arm and back _really fucking hurt_.

"I'll help you. You may have broken some bones."

Normally Dean would worry about venturing off into the night on a secluded mountain in the middle of nowhere with a strange man, but seeing as how it's that or die, he makes an effort to sit up. If the dude was a murderer, he probably would have already done it. Could be a cannibal, though. Defrosting his dinner. The thought makes Dean smile a little. "Thanks," he rasps.

With surprising strength, the man helps Dean to his feet, kicks snow onto the fire, and collects his supplies. "I'm glad I found you alive," the man says sincerely. "You were so still before, I thought..."

"I thought so, too," Dean grunts, pain lancing through him with every hobbled step.

The man slings Dean's arm around his neck and guides him away from the site of his thwarted demise. Dean hopes he knows the woods well because there's no discernable path.

"My cabin isn't too far," the man assures him.

Which is great because he's practically dragging Dean by the time they get to the "cabin." Dean blinks through the haze of agony because "cabin" is a really loose term for the place. Sure, it _looks_ like a cabin insofar as it's made of logs. The rest... it's large for a cabin. Sprawling, even. And it has a deck that probably has a fantastic view. It's also literally in the middle of nowhere.

"Nice place," Dean wheezes.

"Thank you," the man says simply, breathing heavily from the exertion of practically carrying Dean. "It might be a bit rustic, but there's heating and a fireplace..." he glances over. "I have a bathtub and shower, too."

Dean tries to smile, but all that can make it out is a grimace. "Hope I'm not imposing on a family vacation or something."

The man actually laughs breathlessly as he guides them up the porch stairs and kicks the door open. "Not hardly."

It's definitely warm inside. Dean starts sweating immediately and also shivering as his body does a piss poor job of trying to decide whether he's cold or hot.

The man notices. "Let's get you to the couch. Into looser clothes. Perhaps some mild food. Something warm to drink." He gingerly guides Dean down onto the plush, overstuffed sofa. He stands in front of him, brilliant blue eyes assessing. "I should get a better look at your injuries."

Dean presses a hand over the stabbing stitch in his side. "Not that I don't appreciate it, but like... do you have a phone or something? I can call 911. Get a doctor to square me away."

The man smiles smally, the crow's feet around his eyes deepening. He holds out his hand. "Dr. Castiel Novak. I'm a trauma surgeon at St. Joseph's."

"My luck just keeps on giving," Dean says, shaking the guy's hand as firmly as he can manage. "Dean Winchester, humble mechanic out of Lawrence, Kansas."

"Well, Dean Winchester out of Lawrence, Kansas, if you'll permit it, I can be of some assistance with your injuries."

Dean painstakingly leans back against the soft cushions. "I won't stand on ceremony and reject any help at this point. Gotta say, I'm hurting."

"I can give you something for the pain."

"Make it a double," Dean quips weakly.

That makes the good doctor laugh a little. "A sense of humor means you'll live. Relax there. I'll be right back." And then he's rushing off like... well, probably like a trauma surgeon does.

Despite the white hot surges of agony, Dean cases his surroundings. The place is just as big on the inside as it looked on the outside. It's clean, but sparse. There aren't any knickknacks laying around, and nothing to indicate multiple people. There aren't even any photos on the mantel. Just a demure nature painting here and there. The place feels cozy, but a bit impersonal.

Thankfully, Castiel is back in a minute with a fresh change of clothes and a huge medical bag. He's also taken off his coat and boots, revealing jeans, a casual button down, and a hell of body all around.

_He's kinda hot_ , Dean thinks wonderingly. He says, "you planning for the Apocalypse?" nodding at the kit.

Castiel laughs sheepishly. "A hazard of my profession." He sets the clothes on the coffee table and asks in what Dean assumes is his doctor voice, "would you mind removing your clothes down to your boxers so that I can assess your injuries?"

The tone is so familiar and perfunctory, that Dean starts to comply, only to be brought up short with a small cry of pain as his ribs protest him raising his arms.

Castiel is on his knees right away to help. "I'm sorry. I'm not too used to this part of the medical process." He rolls Dean's shirt up his back, pulling it over the back of his head and down his arms.

"I can get my pants," Dean assures him, though Castiel unties his shoes and removes them along with his socks.

Once his clothes are removed, Castiel digs into his bag and takes out a bottle of pills. He shakes one into his hand and offers it to Dean with a bottle of water. "Are you allergic to codeine?"

"Not that I know of," Dean answers, slowly taking the pill.

"As a doctor, I know I shouldn't be offering you prescription medication that isn't for you, but this is only a mid-level dose I got from my knee surgery a year ago. It's the best I can do for the moment, and you'll be glad of it once the shock wears off. But if you don't want it, I have ibuprofen as well."

Dean takes it and downs it then lays out lengthwise on the sofa with a groan. "Is this gonna get worse before it gets better?"

Castiel nods distractedly as he brings out gauze, antiseptic, and ointment. "Most likely. You're coherent, but you are also still in shock a little. Once that wears off, you'll feel every bump and bruise, I'm afraid. Hopefully nothing's broken." He moves close to the edge of the couch and pauses right over the scrapes on Dean's ribs. "Um... we can get you to a hospital tomorrow if the road is clear. I don't have to..."

Dean turns his head, peering at the doctor. He looks... flushed. Holy shit. Is Castiel... checking him out? "You're a doctor," he tests, flippantly. "If your medical opinion is going to the ER, fine, but better to be safe than sorry, right?"

Castiel swallows and drags in a breath. "That's correct," he murmurs. His eyes flick up to meet Dean's for a second, and then back down. He squares his shoulders and gently begins to clean and dress the wounds he finds. He narrates as he goes, voice not entirely steady, but Dean likes it more and more. Until he yelps at a poke to the ribs.

Castiel winces sympathetically. "I imagine you have some broken ribs. There's not much to be done about those, though. Just rest." The ointment stings for a few seconds before blessedly numbing him, and with the lightest touch imaginable, Castiel continues his work. "Your leg's not broken, but your ankle... can you move it?" He helps Dean lift his foot far enough so that he can roll it in an extremely painful circle. But Castiel smiles encouragingly. "Probably not broken."

Halfway through the exam, the pain medication kicks in, leaving Dean drowsy, and in significantly less discomfort.

"Why were you out there?" Castiel asks as he irrigates a cut on Dean's arm that may require stitches, but will have to settle for skin glue.

"Camping," Dean says. "Or trying to. I was looking for a place to set up, but I lost my footing. Pack went further down the mountain than I did, though."

Castiel glances up. "Alone?"

Dean shrugs. Regrets it with a grimace. "No one to take."

An enigmatic smile crosses Castiel's lips. Dean stares. "I can commiserate."

Maybe because he's getting sleepy, Dean doesn't even think before saying, "hot doctor? Hot surgeon? How the hell did you end up single?"

"By being a surgeon," Castiel answers simply, though with humor. "It's less of a career, and more of a way of life after a while."

Nodding, Dean asks, "do you like it?"

Castiel puts the cap back on the glue and sits back on his heels. "I like being able to save lives." He inclines his head to indicate the room. "But this place is my escape. I have a high stress lifestyle. And instead of staying in the city during my time off to meet someone, I run away to seclusion."

Dean grins up at the ceiling. "Yeah, well, you and I got a lot in common that way."

Castiel's chuckle is mostly in his nose. "That's not a bad thing." He packs up his supplies and sets the bag to the side, leaning against the couch near Dean's knees. "What's it like being a mechanic?"

"I save lives, too," Dean answers warmly, studying the scant silver hairs nested in the messy mop of dark brown on Castiel's head.

"Yes, you do," Castiel agrees. "I'd go crazy without my car."

"Oh, yeah? What do you drive?"

"A Continental."

"Okay," Dean says brightly. "Settle in, 'cause Imma tell you why you're wrong."

Castiel laughs and nearly two hours have passed in jovial arguments by the time Dean starts to yawn. "We should get you to bed," he says regretfully. He stands up and offers out his hands. Dean slides their palms together and grasps tightly. His whole body protests moving; stiff now that it had the time to rest, but he gets going towards the back of the house laboriously with Castiel as his crutch.

"I apologize, but there's only one bedroom," Castiel says. "It's a king, so you'll be comfortable. I'll sleep on the couch."

"It's a king," Dean protests, hating how thirty steps winds him. He braces his ribs. "You saved my life, man, I'm not taking your bed. Not without you, anyway."

Castiel seems to mull this over as he opens the door and steps them into the bedroom, slapping the light switch up.

"Nice fucking... _apartment_ ," Dean breathes. "Seriously, my first place was half this size. And there wasn't a fireplace."

"Lucky you fell in with a surgeon, then," Castiel quips, helping Dean onto the huge bed. "Make yourself at home."

Dean scoots back on the high thread count sheets, sighing with deliverance. The bed is fucking _comfortable_. As the rest of the house, there aren't any frivolous decorations, but it's not really necessary since the entire westward facing side of the room is glass, leading out to a balcony. The furniture inside is all comfortable, utilitarian, and earth toned.

"The bathroom is that door to the left. If you need help, let me know."

"I'm good," Dean drawls, suddenly incredibly cozy, and nearly asleep the second his head hits the pillow. Distantly he feels the expensive mattress dip as Castiel joins him, and he thinks it's really nice to have someone beside him again after too damn long.

But when he wakes up he's fucking freezing and trembling and dear _God it hurts so fucking much_.

"It's okay, Dean," a voice says from very close by. "Your fever is spiking, but you're here. You're safe."

Dean whimpers because there are no words to accompany this sort of agony. Instead, he burrows into the warm core beside him. Tries to focus on that. A hand in his hair. Lips moving against his forehead, calming words and sounds. _Warm_. It's warm.

And then it's cold.

And then warm again.

Bright.

Dark.

Then he's blinking up at the ceiling.

"Thank God," he hears and he turns his head.

"Cas?"

Castiel grabs for his arm, fingers clinging tight. "It's been two days. I was so worried. I called the hospital, but there's no access on the roads yet, and I..." his voice wobbles to a halt.

Arms feeling like lead, Dean reaches up and smooths Castiel's messy hair back from his face. "You look like shit," he croaks, noting his red, swollen eyes, greasy hair, and wrinkled clothes.

"You almost died. You nearly _died_ ," Castiel snaps.

Dean raises Castiel's knuckles to his dry lips. Can't find the strength to resist kissing each and every one. Those dull blue eyes widen and shine with tears.

"I almost lost you," Castiel says as the first tears break free.

"Nah, just for a day or two," Dean says.

Castiel brings Dean's hand to his mouth, frantically kissing his pulse, palm, fingers while he waits for the tears to stop. "I should be able to get my Jeep down the mountain later. I'm taking you to the hospital."

Exhausted, Dean murmurs, "okay."

"I think you're past the worst of it."

He is. By midday, Dean is out of bed, ensconced in the huge slate stone bathroom while Castiel helps him bathe. They've been quiet a lot. Castiel hovering, and Dean thinking that leaving is going to be difficult. Wordlessly he holds out his hand, gaze steady on Castiel. There's only a moment of hesitation before Castiel is slowly removing his own dirty clothes and climbing into the tub as well. He closes the curtain and the world is left out for a while. Surreal.

They sit facing one another, neither particularly embarrassed by nudity. It feels intimate in a way that Dean's never experienced before. Like there's something important in the vulnerability that won't fade with the reassurance of sex. It's different. He doesn't know what it means, but it hits him like a deep-seated craving.

"I'm glad we met," Dean blurts.

"Me, too," Castiel answers, expression very soft and a little sad.

Dean can't explain why the look makes his throat tighten, or why the lump makes him lean forward slowly to kiss Castiel. The doctor doesn't move except to tilt his head a little. The kiss is as wet as they are, and just as clean.

It's a kiss he knows he'll remember for a long time. And he does.

He remembers it when he gets another one while Castiel helps him dress.

He remembers it when Castiel pulls into the staff parking lot at the hospital and kisses him again.

He remembers it when Castiel sits with him, holding his hand and peppering it with his lips the whole time Dean undergoes tests and treatments.

He remembers it when he's being released the next morning with new prescriptions, ankle brace, and wrist brace while Castiel reads every word of the discharge papers to make sure they're accurate.

He remembers it when Castiel returns him to his own car and kisses him for fifteen minutes against the driver's side door.

Dean remembers that first kiss and all the others for so long afterwards, he's amazed by it. Through recovery, texts, the flu, the weather changing, and now. Now he's trying really hard to stop remembering it as he drives the Impala up the longest driveway he's ever seen right at sunset. He's happy. He's back to the scene of the crime, and he's goddamn happy. He's happy because the sun is setting behind the sprawling cabin-that's-still-not-a-cabin, and waiting right at the top of the stairs is a beaming surgeon who trips on his feet running down to meet him.

And _that_ kiss after four months of waiting, is the one that starts them both on the real path to the rest of their lives.


End file.
